Still You

by Claire Allan

  “It has its moments. Not as glam a life as the editor of a magazine, I’m sure,” I said with a smile. “But rewarding in its own way.” I glanced at the clock – it was past nine o’clock and I knew the following day would be a busy one. Maybe I was getting old – after all, there was a time when I could manage on a few hours’ drunken sleep and still function relatively well the next day with the assistance of caffeine, a Mars Bar and a couple of Nurofen. But now I knew my limits.

  “Right, pet, I’d better make the long walk down the street,” I winked. “Tomorrow waits for no woman.”

  In the hall I slipped my coat on and opened the door to a cool spring evening. When I turned to hug Sinéad, she pulled me close and gave me a tight squeeze.

  “You know, I don’t think anyone ever feels like they have it all together – and I know this sounds all Oprah or Dr Phil – but you are a strong woman and you will get through whatever happens. Chin up – if nothing else, it makes your wrinkles look smaller.”

  I hadn’t always worked. I was never what you would call a career woman. Matthew and I had married young – at twenty-one – thinking we knew all there was to know about love. I had worked a series of jobs while Matthew had gone to university, qualified as a teacher and worked his way up the career ladder. He was now the very respectable principal of a local primary school while I had only returned to the workforce two years ago. At that stage the girls had been older, well settled into secondary school, and no longer keen on school pick-ups from their mother at the end of each day – they would much rather travel home in an overcrowded bus where they could gossip with their friends and they didn’t like me cramping their style when they got in. That wasn’t to say they were horrible teens who cringed every time they were forced to be in my company – they were good girls. I just hadn’t factored in their social scene and as they grew they craved my company less – so I had decided to take on a job, something part-time which got me out of the house. Matthew had told me I didn’t need to – but the truth was, I wanted to. I was thirty-seven – still young (on paper anyway) and it was dawning on me that the girls wouldn’t be around forever and, when they were gone and Matthew was still working, I would have little to amuse me bar repeats of Homes Under the Hammer and housework. And I wasn’t the biggest fan of housework (hence my mismatched dinnerware and my decidedly unorganised kitchen). I was never the kind of woman who could be a lady who lunches – who could swap the school run for Pilates in the health centre and mornings lost over a half-fat latte in Starbucks talking bikini-waxes, tiger-parenting and being a surrendered wife or whatever fad was doing the rounds. I never really fitted in with the school-gate crowd. The ‘yummy mummies’ tended to be older, swathed in pashminas, expensive make-up and wearing designer boots, while I was always rushing in last minute in a pair of battered trainers without a scrap of make-up on my face – often looking more like the girls’ scruffy older sister than the wife of the local school principal. I didn’t have fashion tips to share with them and I wasn’t interested in listening to PTA gossip, so more often than not I slipped away as quickly as I could before they could ambush me.

  So when I applied for, and got, a job as a care assistant for Brightly Care Ltd I was delighted, if nervous. Matthew had shown the appropriate pleased-for-me response – and had even complimented my uniform – which was going above and beyond the call of all marital duty, There was little to compliment in the elasticated-waist trousers and flat, non-slip shoes which lacked grace and made my feet look clown-like. He even packed me a small lunch on my first day, even though, at first, the job was just for four hours a day and there was no need for lunch.

  When he had left – when that break had happened with an unexpected thud of pain on what had started as an ordinary Wednesday evening – I had been grateful for my job. I clung onto it, increased my hours and revelled in the relationships I built with my clients. They appreciated me. They needed me and, if I was as honest as I could be, I needed them too. Matthew still provided for us financially and, while I didn’t let it take a fizz out of me when he handed over money for the girls’ expenses, there was no way I could bring myself to dip in our hitherto joint resources for anything for myself. So my job became even more of a lifeline – the downside being that I had never fully realised just how exhausting it could be raising teenage twins, working full time and keeping our house in order.

  I pushed open the front door of our suburban semi – eight doors down from Sinéad’s altogether more elegant affair and hung my coat at the bottom of the bannister. I could hear the familiar thump of bass notes from the girls’ bedrooms, confirming they were in and listening to music as they normally did on weeknights, so I climbed the stairs, peeked into both their rooms to let them know I was back and then ran myself a deep, bubble-filled bath.

  Sinking into the water, I closed my eyes and pushed aside thoughts of Matthew getting it on with someone who wasn’t me. Instead I focused on the good things in my life. The girls were healthy and happy. I was … well … okay, even if I was older than I wanted to be, and I had a new client to meet the following afternoon. I had a roof over my head and a good friend in Sinéad and that was worth a lot. I exhaled and promised myself I would be asleep before ten and that my need for sleep wasn’t a sign of premature aging.

  Chapter 2

  “Right, Georgina, here she is,” Cecilia Brightly said, her back to me as she riffled through a raft of papers on the table behind her desk. She turned around and handed me a thin client file in one of her trademark glossy yellow folders. “Her name is Áine Quigley. You might know her? Taught at St Claire’s for years? Her nephew is Jonathan Hegarty – the businessman? Owns a couple of hotels, a few bars, an office block or two. I think he owns one of those big houses near the beach at Buncrana too. A real-life Monopoly champion. If we’d had a power station and a train station to sell, I’m sure he’d have bought them too.” She snorted at her own weak joke.

  I was vaguely aware of Jonathan Hegarty in the way everyone in Derry was vaguely aware of Jonathan Hegarty. I had a hazy memory of meeting him at a fundraiser for Matthew’s school. He might even have been on the Board of Governors – but I couldn’t really remember. I knew Matthew had made a point of getting a few high-profile local business people on board after his appointment.

  It wasn’t surprising that Cecilia wanted to make sure to keep him on side – especially as his aunt was a private client and private clients were worth their weight in gold.

  “Ms Quigley will get ninety minutes of your care a day. It will be fairly basic stuff – she doesn’t need any lifting or intense personal care.”

  I opened the folder and looked at the scant details for her. My heart sank a little when I saw her primary diagnosis was of Alzheimer’s Disease. I had never worked with a dementia patient and I’m ashamed to say the thought of it filled me with a certain sense of dread. My apprehension must have been written all over my face and, just in case it wasn’t, I made sure to voice my worries.

  “Cecilia, are you sure I’m the best person for the job? Surely some of the more experienced carers would be better suited? You know, someone with more experience of dementia care? I’ve none and if she’s a high-profile client you won’t want to take a risk.”

  Cecilia sighed and sat down, gesturing at me to take a seat opposite her. “Here’s the thing,” she said. “The girls who are more experienced with dementia patients are completely tied up dealing with the more advanced cases. I need them where they are. I’ll be honest with you, this is more a touch of baby-sitting than anything else. Her nephew assures me – and her medical notes do back this up – that she’s lucid most of the time. She’s at the early stages of the illness, her diagnosis is fairly recent. I’d go as far as to say she’s not at a stage where most people would normally look for external care but Mr Hegarty was insistent – and insistent on the ninety minutes a day. He wants to make sure she has something decent to eat, her night things laid out and a bit of company. I had to balance o
ur current demands with staff availability. You were the only one of our more senior carers with a suitable window in their schedule – and I knew you would be able to cope.”

  I wasn’t so sure. I wasn’t sure I would cope but I knew that once Cecilia made up her mind there was no point in trying to change it and it would be foolish of me to continue down a road of telling her how inexperienced I was or how I feared a challenge.

  “I thought you would be delighted,” she continued. “No diving between appointments like a madwoman – a quiet end to your afternoons in a nice house with someone who needs minimal care?”

  I wanted to tell her I actually thought spending ninety minutes with one client was grossly unfair. That I wished I could divvy up my time better – spend more time with the clients who needed me more – instead of the twenty minutes we were allotted to them by the local Health Trust but again I didn’t think that would be wise. Cecilia Brightly may have been my boss, but she didn’t make the rules.

  “Look, I know it’s a bit strange but we aren’t in a position to turn away money and I’m sure Miss Quigley is a lovely woman,” she said. “And we need everyone here to be a team player.”

  I nodded, plastered a smile on my face and said it wouldn’t be a problem, before looking at the file in front of me again as Cecilia left the room. It didn’t list much – a few medications, some basic contact information for her next of kin – who appeared to be, solely, Mr Hegarty.

  I recognised her address immediately – I had coveted the exclusive development of beautiful old houses at Temple Muse since I was a child and my father had taken me walking through the private park they surrounded. To my little outsider eyes it had the look of The Secret Garden about it – mature trees, winding pathways and tall imposing houses peeking out over the tops of the hedges. I had told my daddy that one day I’d love to live there and he had smiled, hoisted me onto his shoulders to see a little more and told me to work very hard, and be very good and I’d never know what would happen. Of course I hadn’t thought of Temple Muse for a long time – I’d been more than happy with the house I’d bought with Matthew – even if we didn’t have our own private park. But now, if I was honest, there was a part of me that felt as excited as the young girl I once was at the thought of getting a proper nosy inside those hallowed halls. I had always imagined them to be bursting with character – old in an elegant way with sweeping staircases and kitchens the whole family could live in if they wanted, a cosy range burning through the day into the night and a pot of soup bubbling constantly on the hob. I imagined the mature gardens – trees with rope swings tethered from their branches and pebbled paths which crunched underfoot.

  I slipped on my Brightly Care Ltd fleece jacket, picked up my files and set out for the day, but not before dropping a quick text to Matthew asking to meet after work. No matter how uncomfortable the conversation would be, we needed to talk about whether or not he was seeing someone and discuss appropriate behaviour in front of our daughters. To keep matters light – because I wanted to appear cool with whatever sexual activity he may have been up to – I added a quick line that Jonathan Hegarty was my new boss and asked if Matthew knew whether or not the wealthiest man in town was single and looking for a middle-aged mum of two to be his companion?

  By the time I reached Temple Muse I was focusing on the positives of having an easier end to my day. Each day as a carer was different. Some days I visited my clients and we shared a good laugh and a nice chat while I got on with my work. Today, however, there seemed to be a general darker mood in the air. My clients had been in bad form, or in pain, or both, and I had been frustrated at my lack of ability to make everything all better for them. Despite the promise of spring all around, it was a dark and damp evening and I had a dull headache which I blamed on the two glasses of wine and one horrible shot of tequila I had shared with Sinéad the night before. Matthew had also sent a reply to my text, saying he was busy for the next few nights and he had no idea if Jonathan Hegarty was single but I’d do well to remember to act professionally at all times.

  It was always hard to read the tone of text messages but I got the impression Matthew was both a) avoiding me and b) not impressed with my inquiries about Mr Hegarty. I stuck my tongue out at my phone in what I will admit was a very childish manner and slipped the phone into my pocket before taking two paracetamol washed down with some lukewarm water from the bottle I kept in the car.

  I took a few deep breaths to compose myself and set off up the gravelled path to Áine Quigley’s house, hoping that the day would at least end on a better note. I knocked on the perfectly maintained green front door and peeked through the glass panels on either side to see a small woman with grey, bobbed hair, pulled to one side with a clip, scurry down the hall towards me, a look of relief spread across her face.

  When she pulled the door open I couldn’t help but notice that the woman, who I had to assume was Áine Quigley herself, looked as though she had been crying and that she was twisting a worn corner of her cardigan through her fingers.

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” she said before I could speak, turning and starting to walk away down a long hall – parquet flooring, pictures of smiling loved ones on the walls, a Tiffany lamp casting a soft glow. “Come to the kitchen,” she said. “We’ll have tea.”

  I followed her because it seemed the only thing to do. I hadn’t yet introduced myself although I supposed the brightly coloured logo on my fleece jacket and the file in my hand might have done all the introducing I needed. As I followed her towards the back of the house I glanced around at the dark mahogany doors which closed off four rooms, all of which I was dying to get a nosy in. An imposing staircase dissected the hall. It was the kind of staircase I dreamed of having – perfect for photos on special days, or for flouncing Scarlett O’Hara-like to my bedchamber.

  The house was silent bar the ticking of a large grandfather clock which stood as if on guard duty at the end of the hall and the mutterings of the woman who had now made her way into a large, old-fashioned kitchen which while spotless had clearly not been updated since the fifties or sixties. Painted cream-and-green cabinets, a large Belfast sink, the expected range in the corner. It looked just how I had imagined it would look when I was small and longing to get a peek inside. The small woman with the grey bob had made her way to the range and was rattling an old-fashioned kettle before placing it back on the hob.

  A large kitchen table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by six chairs, as old as the cupboards by the looks of them – and of various styles. Resting on the table were two cups and saucers, a teapot, sugar bowl, milk jug, silver spoons and a plate of sandwiches covered in cling film.

  “Sit down, sit down,” the woman fussed in a tone I didn’t feel like refusing.

  It was clear this was the famous Miss Quigley – or at least she certainly had the demeanour of a school teacher and I felt intimidated. So I did as I was told, sat down and watched as she opened cupboard after cupboard, muttered a little more under her breath and twisted her cardigan a little tighter.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” I offered, trying to speak as clearly and politely as I could in my best impress-the-teacher voice, “but are you okay?”

  “Fine,” the woman sing-songed, her back still to the table as the kettle started to rumble and boil. “I just, well, I was worried. I didn’t know if you were coming.”

  “I’m sorry if I worried you, Miss Quigley,” I apologised, even though by my watch I was right on time. “If you want to tell me what I need to do, I can get on with it.”

  The woman turned and looked at me, a smile breaking across her face as she crossed to the table and picked up the teapot. “You are silly, Charlotte,” she said. “Miss Quigley? You always did like to tease me. Honestly! Miss Quigley! Áine will do nicely, just like it always has.”

  She giggled and carried the teapot over to the counter. There she warmed it, added tea leaves from a canister, and poured boiling water from the k
ettle into it. Then she stirred the tea with a spoon before replacing the lid and carrying the teapot back to the table.

  Sitting down, she looked at me again.

  “Silly Charlie – now be a good girl and pour the tea, would you? I’ve not eaten since lunch and I’m starving.”

  I looked at the woman before me – her face open with trust and, if I wasn’t mistaken, love. Not five minutes before she had looked grief-stricken but now her face was positively glowing. She looked delighted – which was infinitely preferable to looking sad and worried. I didn’t know how to proceed. Should I tell her I wasn’t Charlotte – whoever Charlotte was? Would it be wise to risk upsetting the woman in front of me when she was now sipping her tea from her fine bone-china cup contentedly.

  “Are you not eating? I made cucumber sandwiches because I know you like them.”

  If the truth was told, I hated cucumber sandwiches. I hated anything cucumber-related – but Áine was looking at me with such expectation that I lifted a sandwich and nibbled it, washing it down with a swig of strong tea.

  I felt out of my depth. Baby-sitting? This was not ‘baby-sitting’ and I was hopelessly ill-prepared for it. I took a deep breath, swallowed down another miniature-sized bite of cucumber sandwich and tried to think rationally about the best course of action. I didn’t want to risk upsetting this woman, but it was awkward to be here under false pretences – to act the role of some unknown figure. Charlotte? Her previous carer? A friend? A pupil? The file Cecilia had given me had only listed Jonathan as family. The title of ‘Miss’ implied she wasn’t married and most likely did not have children. I cursed myself for not pushing Cecilia for more information or telling her I needed some sort of insight into caring for someone with dementia. But that would do me no good now. I was well and truly scuppered.

  Five minutes – I would indulge Miss Quigley for five minutes and then I would try and get on with my duties – whatever they might be. I would very calmly ask her what help she needed, try and find out where she kept her medication and if she needed anything taken care of around the house. But from the gleam off the work surfaces and the carefully prepared food in front of us, it didn’t look as if Áine Quigley needed anything done around the house. What she seemed to need, simply, was some company – from someone called Charlotte, whoever she was.